


Recipe for Disaster (Prescription for a Cure)

by tryslora



Series: Mating Games Round 2 [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: mating_games, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Nogitsune, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles likes to pretend that everything’s okay.</p>
<p>The problem is, he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recipe for Disaster (Prescription for a Cure)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the fifth bonus challenge, for which the prompt was "recipe". I have obviously gone with the metaphorical interpretation, because Stiles and Jackson are often a recipe for disaster, and I really needed to eventually write this fic, so why not now? ANYWAY. This is my version of the Jackson and Stiles have had shared manipulated killer experiences story. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Stiles likes to pretend that everything’s okay.

It makes people feel better, okay? If he says _oh sure, yeah, I’m totally human, totally okay_ then they believe him and they go their own way and they don’t _worry_. Because he can feel their worry, soaking into his skin and he hates the way he feels the prick of pleasure at it. Like worry is a good thing, a healthy thing, something he wants to foster. Like he can feed on it.

Because he can still feed on it, and he _hates_ that about himself.

Oh, the nogitsune is _gone_ , he’s sure of that, but he’s not sure he’s exactly human anymore. After all, he was chewed up and spit back out (barfed up, if you want to get technical) by a supernatural being. He’s not the same body that he was, and he hasn’t yet finished cataloging what the differences are other than some strange empathy for trauma and the feeling that he’s somehow immortal and omnipotent.

Okay, maybe not omnipotent. But he’s not as jealous of wolf senses anymore, either. He can hear things sometimes, whispers of things when they invoke his name, as if the wind carries those words directly to his ears.

It’s weird, unsettling, and a quiet reminder that all is not as it was.

No matter how much he says it is.

No matter how much he tries to pretend it is.

#

At first he doesn’t think they’re talking about him.

“Oh, that would be a special sort of train wreck.” Lydia’s voice rings through the air, clear as a bell. Stiles twists, looking at the door, head cocked and trying to remember if someone rang the doorbell and came in to his house.

No one’s there.

“I think it would work.” Scott’s voice is low and calm. “He’s not the same person as he used to be, Lydia. You know that.”

Stiles inhales, exhales through his mouth, slow and easy. He’s been trying to learn to meditate, to control his breath when strange things happen. It helps keep the panic away.

“Why would it be a train wreck?” Malia’s voice, slipping into his hearing, soft and curious. “Stiles is generally easy going.”

“Not where Jackson is concerned.”

_Jackson_.

Fuck, what the hell does Scott have in mind? Stiles is torn between covering his ears and trying to shut it out and listening even more intently. In the end, discretion wins. He closes his eyes, hands over his ears, lightly pressed in as he breathes deeply. In. Out. Centering himself on _himself_.

It works for a few moments, until Stiles’s name rings out again.

“This is Stiles,” Scott says, and the pain in his voice washes over Stiles’s skin with shimmering light. “I can’t just sit by and do nothing. And the only person I know who’s been through anything like it is Jackson.”

Lydia’s huff of irritation is clear. “I still think it’s a recipe for disaster, but if you’re determined to bring him home for this, I highly recommend leaving it as a surprise. If you tell Stiles that you think that Jackson, of all people, will somehow hold the clues to fixing himself, you’ll have lost before you start.”

“I think I know my own best friend.”

“So do I,” Lydia says quietly. “So does Malia now, considering the whole friends with benefits thing. But I don’t think any of us know him as well as we think we do. I don’t think we _can_ , and I don’t think throwing Jackson at him and assuming that shared experience means they’ll understand each other and magically get along will be the answer. So when it explodes, Scott, don’t come crying to me.” There’s a small pause. “And don’t expect me to pick Jackson up at the airport. I’m still not speaking to him.”

“She’s hurting,” Malia says after a moment.

“It’s not just Stiles she’s worrying about,” Scott admits.

“Stop,” Stiles whispers, twisting his hands to push his fingers into his ears. “Just stop. Don’t talk about it. Don’t try to _fix_ me. There’s nothing wrong. I’m fine. I’m _fine_.” He’s lying, but they aren’t there to hear him. He just wants the invasion of his privacy to _go away_.

The voices fade and he can relax slowly. It’s impossible to let it go completely when he knows they’re planning something involving Jackson and himself. But Jackson’s in London and Stiles is here, and they’re both in school right now. It’s not like either of them can go gallivanting across the ocean, or that they’d want to do anything like that for each other.

He wants to tell his friends not to bother, but that would mean confessing that he heard them. Which would mean confessing that he’s _not_ the same as he was before the nogitsune stole his body, and he’s not ready to do that.

He’ll never be ready to do that.

#

He manages to forget about the conversation as the semester moves on. He smiles when expected, he participates in pack meetings. His thing with Malia fades, easing into friendship with the benefits of cuddling, but without the sex. She kisses him gently and says she understands and the worst part is, Stiles suspects she actually does. But of them all, Malia is the one least likely to take him to task for his trauma, so he accepts it.

November eases into December, and when Scott asks Stiles to run to the airport to pick up a package, he does it without thinking. After all, Scott wouldn’t be able to carry it on his bike.

When he sees what the package is, Stiles almost leaves him at the airport.

“There is no way I’m spending an hour in the car with you,” he mutters, ignoring the way Jackson holds out a suitcase as if he expects Stiles to take it.

“Fine, I’ll rent a car.” Jackson turns away, pulling a black credit card from his wallet. “It’s not like I need you for anything.” His grin is sharp. “I can find my way back to Beacon Hills on my own.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Stiles wonders if he imagined the long ago conversation, but Scott sent him here, and Lydia is absent… he knows this must be Scott’s doing. When Jackson turns back to face him, Stiles grabs the suitcase and walks away, assuming Jackson will follow.

“Visiting.”

“Lie.”

“McCall asked me to come.” Jackson shrugs one shoulder. “Lydia asked me to come. Danny asked me to come. My best friends are mourning and this is the first time I managed to get here. Apparently I’m a shit friend.”

“No surprise there.”

Stiles ignores the growl, threading through the crowd and out into the parking garage. He tosses the suitcase into the back of the jeep, letting Jackson wrangle the rest of his luggage. Werewolf strength means he shouldn’t have to worry about it, right?

He drives in angry silence, taking his frustration out on his poor Jeep, revving the engine and pushing her harder than she wants to go on the highway. Jackson ignores him, leaning against the window, staring out at the passing scenery.

The silence gets to Stiles.

“Why do they think you can fix me?” he mutters when they’re about twenty minutes out from Beacon Hills.

“McCall does,” Jackson clarifies without looking at him. He doesn’t even ask where Stiles got the idea, as if he expects the question. “I don’t, because it’s not fixable. You killed people. You’re never going to come back from that.”

It’s the first time anyone’s said it so baldly. So _easily_ , as if it’s that simple. Stiles tightens his grip on the wheel, feels the hard plastic beneath his hands. “Thanks for the hope,” he says quietly.

“I came because McCall asked,” Jackson says. “That doesn’t mean I think he’s right. Maybe I just want to see my friends.”

“Lydia still has terrible taste in men.”

“She’s been talking about you.”

Stiles gives Jackson a look. “I was possessed by a mass-murdering fox demon who did _something_ that makes Lydia flinch when I get to close to her, even now. She has _terrible_ taste in guys.”

“You wouldn’t be the first serial killer she dated.”

“No, I’d be the third.” Stiles bites his lip. “She deserves someone sane.”

“I agree.”

When Stiles looks, Jackson’s hands are tangled tight in his lap, tension showing in the white of his skin. He presses his lips together and lets the conversation go. It doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would to twist the knife under Jackson’s ribs.

It almost feels like he’s stabbing himself.

#

Another week passes before classes let out and the pack gathers at Scott’s house to celebrate the start of Christmas break. There’s plenty of food—pizza, burgers, soda but no alcohol since the parents are in attendance. The cheer gets to Stiles; even Lydia’s mood is lifted now that Jackson is present.

Stiles takes advantage of a quiet moment to slip outside, finding a spot under a tree to sink to the ground and sit, legs crossed and eyes closed. He needs to clear his mind, just for a moment. Just catch his breath.

The air is cool—cold, really, for California. He pulls his knees up, wraps his arms around his shins and rests his chin on his knees. When he hears footsteps, he doesn’t look up, simply says, “Not in the mood, Scotty.”

“Scott’s shooting pool with Kira, Lydia, and Isaac.” Jackson drops onto the ground. “Dirt, Stilinski? Do we really have to sit outside?”

“No one invited you.” He tilts his head back against the trunk of the tree. “And you’re not wanted.”

“I’m not needed inside right now, either, unless I want to watch the girls kick Scott and Isaac’s asses at the pool table.” Jackson snorts. “They should know better than to play against Lydia. She knows physics better than anyone I know, and has great spacial relations. She never misses a shot.”

“Didn’t you used to play against her?” It’s a stupid question; Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s still talking.

“I liked to lose. She always made it up to me.” There’s the sound of a grin in Jackson’s tone, and Stiles makes a noise of irritation at it. He doesn’t need the reminder of when Lydia kept Jackson wrapped around her little finger.

“Why don’t you just go home?” Stiles twists to look at him. “You’ve comforted Lydia, hung out with Danny, and you’ve been generally annoying since you got here.”

“This is my home,” Jackson says dryly. “That’s London. The two are different.”

“Do you want to come back here?” Stiles tries to convince himself that it’s idle curiosity, but there’s a layer of Jackson being revealed here that he didn’t expect, and he doesn’t understand.

“Pack, friends, home.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “Yes, asswipe, I want to stay in Beacon Hills. Do you think I would have left if my parents hadn’t dragged me and their money to London? I was born here and I died here. This place fucked me over and brought me back. London feels… wrong.”

“But doesn’t it hurt?” Stiles shakes his head because he doesn’t _get_ it. “How can you walk around that school and not think _I could’ve killed her_ when you see a random classmate. Or you stop off at the diner, and someone looks at you, and you wonder if they remember that time when you were on a killing spree. Or fuck, I go into the _hospital_ , that place where my best friend’s _mother_ works, and some of the orderlies look at me funny because they _remember_ when my doppleganger came through. The human mind’s an amazing fucking thing, but people still know _something_ is wrong. They may not know about the supernatural, and they may not remember the nogitsune, but they _know_ something is wrong with me. They _know_ , deep down in their hearts, they _know_ I was a killer.”

“You think I don’t get that?” Jackson shifts to his feet, crouching in front of Stiles. “I don’t remember everything, not like they say you do. But you know that. You were _there_ , telling me about my fucking _tail_. Telling me that I was killing people _to death_. You know I had _no fucking idea_ what I was doing. But dying? That broke the hold and I dream about shit. Every single fucking _night_ , I wake up and think about my claws drawing blood. I dream about death all the time, and I’ve got a temper that I can’t keep down. I can’t keep the wolf at bay and it’s funny, because humans can smell it. I swear they can. They look at me and I feel my hackles rise and I want to growl at them, and they want to run. And I _want_ them to run so I can _chase_ them. There’s still a part of me that remembers just how _good_ it feels to destroy something, to feel life slip out. And I want…” He stops abruptly. “You know what? No. You don’t actually give a shit, so _no._ ”

Jackson pushes himself to his feet. “McCall brought me here because he figured we’d talk, you’d hug it out or some shit, and you’d feel better about yourself because you’re not the only one who was forced to be a killer. Guess what: _I don’t care_.”

Stiles watches him go and isn’t sure what just happened. For a moment, he thought Jackson was going to say something _important_ , and he was waiting to hear it. Waiting to see how it might change his life.

But no, Jackson’s as much of a dick as always, and nothing’s different. The only things they have in common are death and Lydia, and even Stiles can see the irony in that.

#

Malia perches on the edge of the chair, bare toes curled to keep her stable, knees bent and hands on her feet. She acts perfectly normal during the day, but in Stiles’s room she seems to let her coyote free, as if she knows he’ll never take her to task for being something other than human.

“He’s not the only killer in the pack,” she says, tone carefully offhand.

“We have more blue-eyed shifters than yellow,” Stiles agrees, staring down at a book. He’s read the same page three times, and he’s still not sure what it said. “Scott’s collecting them. McCall’s home for reformed death eaters.”

“What?”

Stiles makes a mental note to pull out the Harry Potter DVDs at some point. They can spend a weekend marathoning. She’ll get more out of movies now that they’re not making out during them rather than watching. “Never mind. Just another pop culture reference that being furry made you miss out on.”

“I’m still going back.” Malia looks at her fingernails, pops them into claws and smiles. “When I can change completely again, I’m going back.” She looks over at Stiles. “Are you going to stop me?”

“I’m going to hope you come visit. We can watch movies while you’re furry, as long as you promise not to eat anyone and I’ll promise not to let Dad feed you kibble.” He likes the way she sticks out her tongue, the way that the worries of a human girl never seemed to really stick to Malia. She’s artless. Simple, but never stupid. Things are easy with her and always have been. She accepts him for who he is, and never worries about who he used to be.

It’s freeing.

“Scott thinks he’s good for you.” She changes the topic, and Stiles doesn’t have to ask for a reference to know who she means.

“Why are we talking about Jackson-dickhead-Whittemore?” Stiles closes the book with a thud, shoving it aside. “We have _never_ gotten along. He’s a dick, I’m an asshole, and we shall forever snipe at each other. It’s the way we do things, and now that he’s on this side of the pond for an entire month, I have to put up with him. But I don’t have to like it.”

“So was Lydia right?”

Stiles stops just as he’s about to flop onto the chair next to her. A shiver runs through him. “Was Lydia right about _what_?” There are barely remembered things in his mind, whispers of words heard in the distance that may or may not have been real.

“You and Jackson are a recipe for disaster. She told Scott not to bring him.”

“She just didn’t want to see her ex.” Stiles shrugs one shoulder and budges into the chair behind her, wrapping his arms around her to pull her down with him. “They seem to be getting along okay though.”

Malia says nothing, and he buries his face in her hair, inhaling her scent. The sex is no longer a thing, but he still likes the way she feels, the way she has no boundaries and is willing to burrow in close to him at any time. Sometimes he needs that, from someone who doesn’t taste like fear.

He breathes in deep, lets it out slow.

“Give him a chance,” she says softly. “You’ll need someone to talk to when I’m gone. Someone who understands.”

He snorts. “I’m not going to cuddle Jackson.”

“Why not? It’s not like he’s afraid of you.”

It makes no sense the way that makes him laugh, and he pokes her in the ribs just because he can and because he wants to hear her laugh as well. He loses himself in the fight for a long while, then in a slow snuggle before she finally leaves.

It’s in the dark of the night that he realizes that she’s right: other than Malia, Jackson may be the only person he didn’t damage as the nogitsune.

He’s the only other one that doesn’t taste like fear.

#

“Is it because you weren’t here when I was on a murderous rampage, or because you understand what it’s like to wake up one day with the memory of twisting a knife in your best friend’s gut while your fragile psyche watched from inside a cage?”

Jackson’s eyebrows go up. “Nothing like starting the conversation with a bang, Stilinski.”

“Just answer the question.” Stiles stands there, arms crossed, and waits.

“Only if you tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.” Jackson turns back to the kitchen counter, pulling together a sandwich made out of random leftovers from the refrigerator. Stiles reaches out, steals a piece of ham and gets a glare for his trouble.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says plainly. “Is it because you’ve _been_ a murderous bitch, or because you missed out on all the fun?”

He’s not prepared for the growl, for the way Jackson twists towards him, arm across his throat, pinning him against the countertop. “Do _not_ call me that,” Jackson snarls.

Stiles feels his heartbeat ratchet up and sees the moment that Jackson hears it as well. He keeps his expression even. “Murderous? Or bitch? Because I’m pretty sure we both know who was the top when you were with Lydia.”

The muscle in Jackson’s jaw twitches, and Stiles smiles sharply. “C’mon, pretty boy,” he nudges. “Tell me the truth. Why the _fuck_ are you the only one besides Malia willing to touch me?”

Jackson drops him then, taking three steps back as if he can’t get away fast enough. Stiles feels the loss keenly and tries not to let it show in his expression. Instead he wipes the touch from his skin with his fingers and refuses to look at him.

“Are you still planning on murdering me?” Jackson asks.

“No more than I was before all this supernatural shit started.”

Jackson shrugs one shoulder. “Then why should I bother being afraid?”

Air rushes out of Stiles with a whoosh and he sinks to the floor, leaning back against the cabinets, letting them hold him up. His head hits with a clunk when he leans back, and he focuses on the pain because that was just so _normal_. He tangles his fingers, presses his hands to his face. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what, Stilinski?”

Stiles snorts. “Being a dick, Jackson, what else? Just thank you for being you.”

“Anytime, asswipe.”

There’s a kick against his hip, and when Stiles looks up, Jackson’s holding out half the sandwich in silent offering. Stiles accepts it, taking a thoughtful bite while Jackson walks away without another word.

#

Stiles is lying in bed when he hears his name clearly, Jackson’s voice surprised.

“ _Stiles_ did this?”

“He got the process started,” Derek replies. “He left the rest up to me, to negotiate adult to adult. Your custody is going to be jointly held between myself and Chris Argent. Stiles felt that you wouldn’t be comfortable in either the McCall or Stilinski household.”

Stiles wishes he could see the expression on Jackson’s face, wishes he could _see_ rather than just _hear._ He doesn’t know how werewolves stand it, not being able to read body language when they’re overhearing conversations. When nothing more comes, he shrugs internally, licking his lips before he rolls over and burrows into his pillow.

The voices come back after a few minutes.

“I didn’t expect this.” Jackson’s voice is low, quiet. Uncertain.

“He wanted it to be a surprise.” There’s a pause, and Stiles can hear the caution in Derek’s words. “He thought you’d be pleased. Said you wanted to stay.”

“I do. This is—no matter how shitty it’s been, this is home.”

“I understand.”

And Stiles smiles because Derek had said that to him when he first brought it up, that no matter how crappy everything is, pack is what makes a home. It’s why Derek came back to Beacon Hills instead of leaving for good, and why Chris Argent returned after his trip to France. They have become a pack of werewolves, hunters, humans, banshee… and they all need each other.

“We’ll have your parents ship your things. You’ll be getting an allowance…”

Stiles tunes out the drone of technical information, not caring how much money Jackson’s going to have to flaunt in front of them. He’s riding on the edge of sleep, not even realizing that the voices faded, when his phone pings with an incoming text. He picks it up, thumbing it awake to see words glowing on the screen.

_You’re still an asshole_.

He laughs out loud, quickly tapping back _and you’re still a dick—some things never change_.

Stiles puts the phone on silent and flips it over so he won’t see the light of any more notifications. He swears he hears the words _thank you_ drifting on the breeze, and he smiles against his pillow and murmurs, “You’re welcome.”

For the first time in months he sleeps without dreams, and he wakes in the morning thinking that maybe, eventually, he really will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Come fine me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
